


names for the nameless

by halfwheeze



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky goes by James, Canon PTSD, M/M, Name Changes, Names, Pet Names, Tony Stark Typical Pet Names, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 12:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17746088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfwheeze/pseuds/halfwheeze
Summary: James does not initiate anything. He does not begin conversations, he does not reach out, he does not touch or talk or really do much of anything without the express desire of someone else directly influencing him. This does not come from over half a century of taking orders, but rather from the anxiety that comes after. He does not force his presence on anyone, because he will not be forcing anything on anyone. He will never be what Hydra was to him to anyone else.





	names for the nameless

**Author's Note:**

> First Winteriron piece! I hope to do many more going forward. Enjoy!

James does not initiate anything. He does not begin conversations, he does not reach out, he does not touch or talk or really do much of anything without the express desire of someone else directly influencing him. This does not come from over half a century of taking orders, but rather from the anxiety that comes after. He does not force his presence on anyone, because he will not be forcing anything on anyone. He will never be what Hydra was to him to anyone else. 

The others talk to him, though sparsely. Steve talks to him all the time, nearly constantly, reminiscing about things of a time when James was called Bucky and Steve was so small one could hardly believe he was there at all. Steve has half-acclimated to the idea that James is called James now in that he tries very hard, but sometimes there is still room for improvement. Sometimes, James is  _ Bu-James _ out of the mouth of Steve Rogers, but that’s okay. He is still learning to even like this James, let alone love this new him even nearly so much as he loved his Bucky. 

There are only two other people in the tower who effortlessly speak to James every single day without fail: FRIDAY, who is so strange and wonderful and new, and Tony Stark. At first, James had thought that Stark spoke to him out of a sense of watchfulness, which James could understand, but it wasn’t that. Around the other Rogues, Stark sat with his hackles up, his hands completely spread as to not curl themselves into fists, running rapidly between closely held silence and the rambling that the rest of the team seemed more familiar with and exasperated by. 

James likes Stark. Stark has requested to be called Tony in concern to James, but something in James likes the difference, the oddity of James calling Tony something different from the others. He thinks that this part may be Steve Rogers’s  _ Bucky,  _ though that piece of him also wants to call Stark something far more fond than his surname, something far more fond than he thinks Stark would ever be comfortable with. 

But that’s not important. Stark is becoming James’s friend, becoming something that James holds fondly in what used to be his heart, but. James would like to hold him in another sent. He would like to hold Stark’s inventer’s hands, to pull Stark in by his slim hips, to wrap his own arms (one of which is a Stark original) around deceptively broad shoulders. There is something in James that would simply like to touch at all, whether it be Stark (who James would like to touch in some delightfully unplatonic ways) or just in general. Even Rogers avoids touching James. 

That’s isn’t to say that Stark touches him either. Stark carefully avoids skin contact like James is the only man left with the plague, horrific and so infectious that even to touch him would be a guarantee of certain death. James finds himself coming to the workshop anyway, even if it’s just to make sure Stark sleeps, to make sure he eats and drinks and does all of that  _ taking care of yourself  _ shit that the kids are so hot on these days. That’s how Stark would say it anyway. James smiles to himself in the elevator. 

“Tastee-Freez!” Stark crows as James steps into the workshop, not even looking up to see who it is. He has his hair pushed back by safety goggles, his face nearly pressed to the circuit board he’s working on. James does not know why Stark needs safety goggles to work on circuit boards in the first place, but he thinks he might be better not knowing. He worries enough about Stark’s safety without assistance. 

“Hi, Stark,” James greets, sitting down on the workbench that’s across from Stark. He’s not close enough to get in the way, but just close enough to smell the blend of grease-sweat-work-Stark that makes the workshop so damn comforting. He’s sure that if it was a workshop belonging to anyone else, it would be the definition of a trigger for him, cold and bright and full of scientific discovery. Stark looks at him just enough to shoot him a pout and a half hearted glare. 

“Stop callin’ me Stark,” he whines, and James grins. He only ever seems to smile in the workshop, like it has some sort of aura that makes it that much easier to express, to feel something at all. He shrugs a shoulder. 

“What would you encourage?” James asks, leaning back in his perch. He trusts his core strength to keep him generally upright, and the slight strain it puts on his right hand holds Stark’s attention for a gratifying moment. Then, Stark gets a look of quiet contemplation, though the little spitfire is never quiet for long. 

“Anton. It’s a little Anthony by way of Moscow, but Ana used to call me that sometimes,” Stark suggests. His voice is wistful, a little sad, and James both wants to ask and doesn’t want to know who Stark has lost. Anton. James could like that. Especially if it would make Tony Stark happy. 

“Anton,” he tries out, rolling it around in his mouth for a moment. It’s new, different, but he likes it. “Anton,” he repeats, quieter, just to say it again. Anton grins. Yes. It’s fitting in a way that James can hardly understand. 

“Well, if that’s sorted out, how about you come help me out, big, brunette and beautiful? I could use a big, strong metal arm right now,” Anton says, flashing him one of those tantalizing smiles that make James want to kiss him more than ever. He gets up from his seat easily, utilizing the ‘murder strut’ that Anton always teases him about as he walks over. He holds something large and metal above Anton’s head, letting the smaller man look under it to do whatever repairs he’s finding necessary. James believes that it’s something from the basement, something to do with whatever runs the tower, but he doesn’t know exactly what it is. He’s sure Anton would explain if he asked. 

“Alright, Red October, thank you! That’s all I gotta do,” Anton announces after about a minute (though perhaps more - James isn’t really on his best attention at the minute), turning to the side. He doesn’t seem to realise beforehand that it puts him nearly flush against James’s chest, and James freezes, feeling the body heat coming off of his friend. Anton looks up at him through his lashes. 

“Hi,” James says, cursing his voice for cracking on the one syllable. His voice has never cracked before, not since he was Steve’s Bucky, not since this body belonged to a teenager from Brooklyn. Anton smiles softly, though he still doesn’t reach to touch James. James wishes he would. 

“You gonna let me out, Jamie?” he asks, sounding fond and with a little hitch of something like nervousness in his voice. James shakes his head without even thinking about it, loving the heat of having another person this close, the feelings that flooded directly up to his head and down his chest. His right hand, which is the only one not still holding up something Anton doesn’t even need to be held up anymore, asks a silent permission as it’s held just a scant centimetre from Anton’s hip, just barely not touching. Anton looks down at it and then back up at James’s face. 

“Can - Can I?” James asks, nervous and careful, and Anton nods. James slowly lowers his left hand, letting the metal block fall into place as his metal hand comes over to grasp Anton’s shoulder. His flesh hand cups Anton’s hip, measured and soft, so delicate in how he moves because he doesn’t want to startle. Anton lays a hand on the juncture of James’s neck and shoulder, soft as well, and the tension runs out of James all at once. He didn’t know how much of it that he had held. 

“Stay with me, Sarg,” Anton says, his thumb stroking backwards and forwards toward James’s ear. There’s no control as James lolls forward, his head falling to Anton’s shoulder and his breaths coming out heavy. He doesn’t know why the touch feels so damn good, so necessary and affirming and all of the good things that he had forgotten the intricacies of. Anton’s hand moves to stroke at the back of James’s shaved head, combing through the stubble that has just started coming back in. Anton is whispering comforting things, just noise, and James curls around him without hesitation. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, mostly to the open air, barely admitting that it’s for Anton at all. Anton scritches his hair in acknowledgement anyway. When Anton attempts to separate them, a noise of discomfort rips itself out of James’s chest without his permission, and he clings a little closer to Anton, who hushes him. 

“Hey, Icyhot, I was just gonna suggest moving to the couch, yeah? You wanna lay down? Hold me?” Anton sooths, and James burns at the suggestion. He lifts Anton up automatically, making the other man gasp and let out a bark of laughter, but he lets James carry him anyway. He treks to the couch and sets himself down, first in a relaxed sitting position and then reclining into laying down. Anton lets him, laying out flat over James’s person, and James loves it. He nuzzles into Anton’s throat, trailing his nose from hairline to shoulder and getting to the source of one of the scents he finds so comforting. James makes himself pull back just enough so that he can look Anton in the face. 

“Why are you letting me do this?” he asks despite the way that he almost doesn’t want to know. His stomach boils with a hot, embarrassed guilt at the idea of Anton humoring him, but his heart sinks equally at the idea that Anton is going through this with a sense of discomfort if he thinks that this will calm the rage that James sometimes finds himself subject to. He doesn’t want Anton to do this unless Anton himself wants to be. 

“You’re pretty. And warm. And you look like you need this, and so do I. And I like you. Ergo, cuddling on the lab couch in the middle of the day. Though, you can take me anywhere you want, if I’m being honest. I like being carried around a lot more than I thought I did,” Anton admits, placing his forehead against James’s forehead softly, careful not to knock them together. James leans forward just a bit and does something he never thought he would have the strength to do: he kisses Anton. He kisses him and he does it  _ first  _ and it’s wonderful and Anton makes this adorably delighted noise and James wants to keep him forever. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Prompt me @halfwheeze on tumblr!


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